


True North

by serpentstone



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Age of Sail, Anal Sex, M/M, Oral Sex, Pirates, Royal Navy AU, Trans Hanzo Shimada, Trans Male Character, Young Hanzo Shimada, Young Jesse McCree, one time i watched master and commander and i cried, the word seaman
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-03
Updated: 2017-03-13
Packaged: 2018-08-20 06:15:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8239015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/serpentstone/pseuds/serpentstone
Summary: Jesse McCree never felt like he belonged on the water. He never felt like a born sailor or any other hokey poetic reason his crewmates might give as to why they dedicated their lives to such grueling work. He was a criminal and a cheat who needed an escape - and this was certainly one hell of an escape.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we have a young McCree and Hanzo, where everyone still has their limbs (for now), aboard an early 19th-century-ish royal navy frigate. Sailing is hard, especially when the object of your desire looks great in a waistcoat.
> 
> Here's a pinterest board to help with the mood: <https://www.pinterest.com/agenderandroids/true-north/>

Ask a sailor why he lives for the sea and he will tell you he loves her. A sailor must prove himself worthy for her with the blood of his hands and the sweat of his brow. He must respect her power, worship her body, live for her. And when the sailor has proven his worth, she will take him, and she will finally love him back.

Jesse McCree never felt like he belonged on the water. He never felt like a born sailor or any other hokey poetic reason his crewmates might give as to why they dedicated their lives to such grueling work. They spent months, sometimes years, away from home, living in cramped quarters that smelled something of brine and rotting fish. Their dedication to the service of Her Majesty’s Royal Navy supposedly gave them some semblance of honor, not that they would ever see the benefits.

McCree couldn’t care less about serving some noble cause or gaining honor. He was a criminal and a cheat who needed to get as far away from a deal gone bad as possible - even if it meant leaving the comfort of steady, dry land.

At the office of the naval shipmaster, McCree had spun a tale about being an experienced seaman, working on his family’s schooner since as far back as he could remember. He lied about his knowledge of halyards and laying sails, trying to pass off made-up phrases as the words of an insider. The shipmaster watched him unconvinced over the tops of his spectacles.

“And is there anything else,” the shipmaster had waved his hand vaguely, “that you would like to have me consider?”

At this juncture, the frantic McCree knew he was losing his case. Sweat beaded on his brow as he imagined himself having to face enemies who longed to see him hanged.

“Listen,” he gulped, “I can load a Springfield in 17 seconds, unload a Colt in 12. If you gotta spot in the powderkeg, I can do the dirty work faster than three of your trained navy boys. Just give me orders and I can do it.”

The shipmaster’s eyes had crinkled at the edges when he smiled.

And that was how Jesse McCree ended up as gunner’s mate aboard the HMS _Horizon_.

-

Given that McCree was lying wholeheartedly about any ounce of sailing knowledge he might possess, he found initial life aboard a frigate to be slightly more difficult for him than the next yeoman. Being the rank of gunner’s mate was no lowly title; he might not have been an officer, but at least he wouldn’t have to peel potatoes quite as often as an ordinary seaman. The duties on deck, which left his neck and arms scorched from the sun, were occasionally split up by duties below deck, assembling each of the 98 guns the _Horizon_ carried.

When it came to guns, McCree wasn’t lying about any of his related skill. He knew his way around a musket like it was an intimate partner, a pistol like the back of his hand. However, it seemed that a gun by his standards was not a gun by the standards of the navy.

On his first assembly job below, one day after boarding, he stood before one of the frigate’s prized 30-pounders without a clue in his mind what to do with it. The massive cannons were so new that the slider carriages still smelled of fresh wood varnish. Lifting one of the thick ropes designed to keep it in place, he realized he couldn’t even fit one hand completely around the braid.

McCree stared at the ship-length row of cannons and figured he might as well throw himself overboard before anyone found out how useless of a crewmember he was and threw him themselves.

“Isn’t it absolutely lovely?” A wistful sigh said from behind him.

“Girls aren’t allowed onboard, ya know,” McCree taunted the newcomer, playing off the start he’d been given by the sudden intrusion.

The offending crewmate stepped forward, unperturbed by the comment, and lovingly ran a hand across the smooth cannon barrel.

“According to the ship’s roster, there isn’t a girl on board.” A playful smirk. “The boys call me Tracer. Quarter gunner. And you don’t know jack shit about these things, do you?”

McCree pointed a finger at her, threatening. “No you listen here, _Tracer_. I know what the hell I’m doing. I don’t need you trying to get me in trouble or nothin’.”

She laughed openly at him, clearly finding him nothing more than amusing. Uncomfortable being the subject of her laughter, McCree dropped his finger and nervously straightened his sailor’s frock.

“Don’t be ridiculous! I’m not trying to get anyone in trouble. I just thought you ought to know that I fire these things quite often.” A sly pause. “Use that information as you will.” The short quarter gunner turned on her heel knowingly and began to head back toward the steps for the top deck, smiling like she had won the little game.

“Wait!” McCree gritted his teeth, knowing he’d probably never live this down. “H-How do I cleat these.”

-

Tracer became the only person on board who gave McCree the time of day, even if it meant that the Cockney twerp would tease him every chance she got. He noticed that, in the presence of officers on deck, she was somehow always standing behind taller members of the crew, not garnering the attention of anyone in particular. Her short dark hair and sharp jawline made her very passable as possibly a deckboy or a young seaman. McCree didn’t know much about her, only that she was there to get as far away from land as possible. He understood that feeling very well himself.

The HMS _Horizon_ still sat anchored in the flat waters of the royal port bay, waiting for the full crew to join and for provisions to be fulfilled. It was still rather close to shore; a comfort for a man not used to leaving it. The harbor frequently saw incoming and outgoing frigates, and rarely experienced waves larger than a slight chop. It created a fiction of relaxing sea life that McCree willfully indulged in.

The past week had McCree slowly becoming more comfortable with the idea of life aboard a ship, but the whispers of his crewmates became more terrifying as word of the oncoming assignment spread. Mentions of rocky passages, storms, pirates. McCree, who was still gaining his sea legs, felt his stomach turn at the thought of such things.

Following the instructions Tracer had carefully explained to him, McCree made quiet, busy work of readying all guns for mission launch. He wanted nothing more than to stay out of sight of the officers assigning tasks. They seemed to enjoy catching crewmen slacking off and giving them the more undesirable jobs as punishment. To make things worse, small ferry boats were arriving each day with more members of the crew - including more officers. The captain hadn’t yet come aboard, with many of the higher ranking officers also missing from the lineup. McCree assumed the current ranking members of the crew were trying to get their jabs in before they themselves were at the mercy of lieutenants and commanders.

The frigate was made to hold 355 men and McCree considered all 354 of those men were far more qualified than he to be aboard the prized vessel. He would watch a young deckboy of 12 tie a perfect bowline knot while imagining himself being chased down and killed by his land-bound enemies.

 _Maybe it’ll work itself out_ , he’d think to himself. _Just fake it until we reach a port somewhere, far as fuck away from here._

-

Two weeks anchored in the bay, the ship neared perfect readiness. Along with the final crewmates, ferry boats would come from shore to deliver missing sails, rope, hulking bags of flour, writhing pigs; anything that put together the final pieces of the _Horizon_ puzzle.

At dinner one evening, during a particularly hilarious story told by an older yeoman, the officers’ bell rang from above deck, the sharp pings shocking everyone out of their relaxed state and making them scramble up top to line up in naval formation. Falling into the silent, straight-backed line, McCree noticed his peers staring straight ahead, feet together, occasionally sneaking their hands up to smooth a vest or wipe their frock. Hearing the clear rings of the bell from the quarterdeck once more, this time seemingly unnecessary as everyone had already fallen in, McCree snapped to attention. He may not have had any military knowledge but, if his hunch that the captain was about ascend was correct, he wouldn’t want to be the odd man out.

The onboard officers stood in a line opposite the crew, a break in the men where the deck wall opened up to allow persons to pass. One by one, new officers, sporting the crisp epaulets and gold-trimmed waistcoats of top rank, began boarding through the gangplank gap from the smaller adjacent vessel. These men were of obvious stature, even the seriousness of their faces indicated years of training. Hair was well-styled and recently trimmed, facial hair shaved clean or immaculately groomed.

McCree swallowed thickly, his mouth suddenly dry. He feared these men. He feared their ability to see through him. He also possibly feared the visible pistols hanging from the hip of each commander. He tried to placate himself with thoughts of turning a cannon on someone who dared to threaten him with a pistol.

The final members to climb aboard - the last before the journey would begin - were the surgeon, botanist, lieutenant, and captain himself. The surgeon and botanist, obviously not members of strict regimen, were openly chatting and laughing with each other, seemingly oblivious to the tense military air around them. They donned worn boots and comfortable clothing, no visible signs of rank or military insignia.

The duo stood leisurely to the side, between the lines of crew and officers. They made small talk about their families and friends. It helped to cut the tension of the air, making McCree feel as though maybe this wasn’t as serious of an event as the attention to protocol made it seem.

The next figure appeared after a moment, gold epaulets of a lieutenant’s rank stark against the fitted midnight blue frock. Stepping completely aboard and straightening his waistcoat, the man looked up, feeling eyes on him from the line of crewmen, before turning back around to help the captain step onto the deck.

As the final addition to the voyage stepped aboard, McCree noticed that the chatter between chaplain and surgeon had stopped. The air had once again become thick with apprehension. The lieutenant took hold of the commander’s arm and assisted him onto the now-silent deck.

The man was tall and weathered, his face marred with scars of battle, hair bleached by salt and age. He carried both a pistol and a cutlass at his hips. The faces of experienced seamen in the crew held looks of admiration and respect for the man.

For several moments, the new arrivals collected themselves and whispered softly about arrangements and orders. The looming masts creaked lazily in the sea breeze, the last rays of sun disappearing beyond the bay. The crew, still at attention, shuffled uncomfortably as the time drew on and their backs became stiff from forced posture. McCree silently studied the clean, elaborately-uniformed newcomers before him. He was suddenly very aware of his unkempt hair and once-clean shaven scruff growing out without having been groomed. While he owned one official naval frock, double-breasted with beautifully crafted bronze clasps, he looked on at the lieutenant’s crisp white waistcoat and golden adornments with a strange feeling.

His mind was caught somewhere between wondering how much he could sell it for and what the man would do if he found it one day ripped to shreds. McCree smiled slightly.

The sharp, dark eyes of the lieutenant glaring back at him cut McCree out of his daze. McCree wiped the smirk from his lips and averted his eyes. The lieutenant, suspicious, analyzed him for a moment longer before returning to the discussion happening beside him.

McCree didn’t quite fancy the idea of being openly chastised for breaking his military bearing or anything of that sort. With his gaze seemingly focused on the rope shrouds just above the heads of the commanding party, his vision blurred to the thought of dumping officers’ breeches overboard. Just for fun.

At long last, the commanding crew headed toward the captain’s grand quarters, all without  addressing the sizeable common crew standing at attention on deck. After the ornamental double doors at the quarterdeck shut firmly with a sense of finality, the lower ranking officers dismissed the crew, warning them to prepare for launch within the next day or two.

Finally dropping his posture with the rest of his peers, McCree turned to seek out Tracer.

“Friendly bunch, don’t you think.” She noted with mirth to her approaching friend.

“Will they always ignore us, ‘cause I don’t think I’d mind that too much. They don’t seem too eager to say hello.”

The two walked together as they returned below deck, their dinners undoubtedly spoiled from sitting unfinished.

-

That night, when all the lanterns had been extinguished and the crew had retired to their hammocks, McCree laid awake in the dark. He swayed slightly with the gentle rocking of the frigate, the sounds of halyards hitting the masts as a steady background noise. Assessing the last two weeks aboard the _Horizon_ was like a blurry dream to him. The sudden realness of actually leaving the familiar harbor for an unknown amount of time at sea was, quite frankly, terrifying.

Before his pleading to join the next ship leaving the harbor, Jesse McCree had lived happily as a dishonest man. He worked peripherally with a gang that stole from various bourgeoisie who had become comfortable with a sense of security. With a clean shave and a little charm, he could easily get a banker to tout his riches or a businessman to boast his jewels. Reporting his findings back to the gang, they would go through with the heist as a group and split the rewards evenly.

As it turned out, McCree ended up double-playing them. He wasn’t proud of himself, but he was tired of splitting the rewards for work he could have done by himself. He wanted more, so he took it.

However, the gang had too many hands in too many places and it wouldn’t have been long before McCree was found in hiding. He opened a safety deposit box under the false name Peacekeeper, using it as a way to keep his gold and jewels secret, even if he wanted desperately to spend them on a lavish life. Figuring that a few years under the radar would relieve search efforts, he sought out honest work for the first time in his life.

Now that he had his physical self in relative safety, he wondered how well his plan would work out. He hadn’t expected sea life to be any more difficult than swabbing the deck, raising the sails, all hands on deck, what-have-you. Even before the _Horizon_ had even left the harbor, he was already sore and aching from endless hours of salt-scrubbing the teak, attaching lines to various topsails, readying cannons for possible warfare. His hands were raw from the work, his hair thick and stiff from the salt air. Just being so tired from non-sailing work, McCree had no idea if he would be able to handle actual life at sea. He considered how far he would have to swim if he jumped ship now and swam back to shore before sails were set.

Sighing from the futility, he rolled over and shut his eyes.

-

The next morning, the crew awoke at dawn from the shrill, piercing blow of a whistle above deck. It was not a familiar sound, but it was undeniably authoritative.

Crewmen rolled from their hammocks, rubbing sleep from their eyes while pulling on boots. McCree ran a hand over his face in an attempt to wake himself up. Ascending the steps that led to the deck, crewmen immediately spotted a cluster of officers waiting for them and took their places along the deck at attention.

Once everyone had fallen in, as silent and militaristic as they could muster being so freshly out of sleep, the captain stepped forward to address them.

“Gentlemen,” he began. His deep baritone held undeniable command experience. “We have received our admiralty orders from Her Majesty’s Royal Navy. Tomorrow we will be setting sail for the West Regions, assisting in trade and instilling diplomacy between ports. We will use this day for all final preparations and boarding. I believe each of you have your assignments. If not, speak to your petty officers before we turn rudder.” McCree wondered what kind of leader he would turn out to be.

When dismissed, crewmen scattered lazily, moving toward their stations to begin working with direct officers before even eating breakfast. Some descended steps to return below deck, others either stayed in the areas with rigging or moved upstairs to the quarterdeck for navigation. While he was still on deck, a hand clasped McCree’s shoulder and a man introduced himself as the ship’s gunnery officer.

The standing officer in charge of all ship armaments was a large German man by the name of Reinhardt. He had the white hair and bushy beard of an older man but the great rippling muscles of a younger man who could easily tear McCree in half. His off-white shirt had its sleeves rolled up past the elbows, and McCree wasn’t sure if it was because of the heat or if the man simply wished to intimidate. The gunner was to oversee all cannon assembly and preparedness.

Reinhardt, who had arrived onboard the night before with the remaining higher-ranking officers, asked McCree to tour him through the gun levels and explain the work that had been done prior to his arrival. McCree obliged.

“Have you sailed on the _Horizon_ before, sir?” McCree asked, leading his overseer below deck.

“No, not yet.” The man replied casually, all formality of a difference in rank having disappeared. “She’s a little new for our line of work, hasn’t yet seen anything beyond than the bay! Haven’t you noticed how few rats there are?”

Stepping through various rooms to reach the gun deck, McCree nodded absently, thinking he had never quite realized just how new the _Horizon_ actually was. Looking a bit more closely at his surroundings, he did notice that paint was still fresh and the wares hadn’t yet been broken in. While he did complain about attaching lines and tracks to the guns, he never figured that everyone else was doing setup work as well.

“So’s that why we all got here at different times? Deckboys setting up the ship for top crew?” McCree wondered to Reinhardt.

“Yep.” He answered simply as they opened the large doors to the gundeck.

The cannons were all well-oiled and cleated to tracks. Barrels of gunpowder were corked and secured against a far wall, racks of cannonballs strapped down for voyage. Reinhardt said nothing as he closely inspected McCree’s work.

Muffled footsteps scuffled above them on the higher decks. McCree was used to occasional footsteps and the sounds of various jobs being performed but the rapid steps above sounded more like what he imagined a full freighter to be like.

“How many years have you been the gunner’s mate?” The older man inquired, looking up at McCree from a gun further down the row.

“Uh,” Should he lie? “Actually, this is my first voyage.”

Bushy white eyebrows rose at his response. “You have done well with these ladies.”

“Thank you. Sir.” He added the ‘sir’ as an afterthought. “I consulted the quarter gunner when- when I had questions.”

“Make sure you thank him when you get a chance! I will help you adjust some lines, but we will soon be ready for departure.”

For the remainder of the morning, Reinhardt gave quick tips and lessons for securing the thick lines, as well as what to expect if the guns would need to be utilized. Almost everything on board had to be well-secured during travel, rather than being at a constantly ready position. The slight tilt of the frigate during full sails and the hitting of ocean swells could be enough to knock a poorly-tied cannon through the back wall. McCree fumbled with the knots but Reinhardt was forgiving; he simply reassured McCree that quick skills would come with practice.

“You’re nicer than the petty officers.” McCree blurted plainly. “I mean, I think they’ve been tryin’ to get some authority in before you high ranking folk got on board.”

“Yep.” Reinhardt affirmed with a wink. “Do not cross me, lad. Do not cross any officer, at that.”

-

After scarfing down a quick breakfast, McCree happily located Tracer above deck at the stern. She was adjusting various back-facing small cannons that she would be the sole operator of. The stern of the ship, a level above the main deck, was remarkably private behind the mizzenmast and helm. Orders were being shouted and drills were commencing below the railing, but the two on the quarterdeck were able to feel like they didn’t have any strict eyes on them.

McCree detailed his morning with Reinhardt, relaying his thanks as he was suggested to do earlier. She laughed, adjusting the flat cap on her head to cover her eyes more.

Behind them, the helmsman and a group of young deckboys ascended from the main deck. The helmsman explained basic navigational knowledge about wind speeds and direction, allowing each of the boys to spin the wheel that would direct their journey. Crewmen shouted from high up in the shrouds, practicing commands and tactics. At the very front bow of the frigate, a small group of petty officers were gathered to peer through their individual looking glasses at nothing in particular. The workings of a full ship’s crew was new, but fascinating to witness.

McCree and Tracer continued chatting, leaning against the railing to look out at shore. As Tracer spoke excitedly about this and that, McCree glanced around to notice the lieutenant standing at the opposite end of the quarterdeck, hands delicately placed on the railing as he stared down at the actions occurring on the main deck, paying no mind to the duo behind him. McCree noticed that the man was not ordering anyone or speaking officially with his peers. He was simply analyzing. McCree almost hadn’t recognized him at first, as the last time he had seen the man he’d been wearing the crisp formal coat that McCree had fantasized about selling. The lieutenant hadn’t worn his coat today, his lengthy black hair tied back and stark against his off-white waistcoat.

“Aaaand you’ve completely stopped listening to me.”

McCree looked back at his friend, pulled from his thoughts. He gave an apologetic laugh and made a hand motion by his head to indicate spacing out.

-

Crew excitement grew exponentially as the sun set and duties were ceased for the day. The rambunctious dining room was filled with hearty laughter, yelling, flagons hitting tables after a long drink. As all officers ate in separate dining quarters, crew didn’t feel pressured to act like military members during meals. Shirts would come off and tattoos would be compared. Songs would break out after drinks had been chugged. On the night before casting off and starting their voyage, the songs were louder than ever and the laughter flowed merrily. Each was as worn out from the actions of the day as the next.

After a night of sound sleep, the crew was once again awoken at dawn by the shrill, piercing blow of an officer’s whistle. This time, however, the hustle was quicker and boots did not scuffle from sleep. The time spent watching land from afar had grown long. Many men had families and loved ones that they had left for the _Horizon_ ’s mission, and having to sit just out of reach was excruciating. Now, the actual journey would begin, bringing them one day closer to their return.

When there was little to do on the gun deck, McCree’s duties were above deck, assisting with sails and lines. With the work of several men, anchors were pulled and the ship was floating free.

McCree followed the motions of his peers, bounding from area to area, pulling heavy lines as sails unfurled above him. He hadn’t yet ventured up the shrouds, the height terrifying him even from below. For now, he would be content securing the lines from sails rather than working with the great canvases themselves.

Grasping the rope rigging on one side of the deck, McCree leaned his head over the railing to watch how the water sprayed against the hull of the massive ship as she gradually increased speed. The cool ocean wind whipped his hair in his eyes, the salt made his skin feel dry and gritty.

Land shrank behind them as the sun rose in the sky. McCree’s skin prickled from the heat of the overhead sun, but the sails being completely unfurled offered areas of momentary shade.

In the early afternoon, the crew’s spirits had begun to settle from their initial excitement of the journey’s start. Each crewmember worked to create a smooth clockwork of shifts, splitting numbers between various responsibilities. Those who would be taking night watch bid farewell to the deck crew, descending the steps to return to their hammocks until night had fallen. After sails were secured and ropes were knotted, McCree joined Tracer in scrubbing the deck wood.

Large, sandy holystone in both hands, McCree’s back ached not long into haunching over the deck to scrub it dry. Salt erosion of the teakwood was preventable with holystone, but painful, therefore becoming a lowly crewmember responsibility. He and Tracer exchanged conversation, talking about various ports to look forward to and whether they would feel seasickness during harsh winds. Sitting up from scrubbing, McCree rolled his shoulders to relieve some of the ache. Holystone duties were definitely cathartic, taking several hours and being a completely mindless activity, but it hurt. However, it being a required responsibility of the crew, he would be able to zone out completely without feeling the wrath of officers yelling at him to get to work.

Gazing across the wide deck from where he was laboring, McCree took in his peers quietly working on their own tasks. Braiding rope, piecing together various instruments. Tilting his head back to look up at the masts, silhouettes of various crewmembers sitting atop sail booms and working with pulleys were visible against the bright sun. He continued admiring the small activities of the crew that made the ship work as a whole, watching the various exercises and labors from skilled seamen. Turning to see what might be happening behind the group scrubbing, he found himself staring at someone who was staring back.

Several feet away, the lieutenant stood with his arms crossed, no emotion on his face as he silently scrutinized McCree’s odd peering. McCree immediately snapped back to what he was doing, face heating up out of embarrassment as he hunched back over his holystone to scrub. Beside him, Tracer was lost in her own catharsis, not having noticed the silent interaction that had just happened. McCree slowly restarted his repetitive scrubbing motion, neck burning as he wasn’t sure whether he was still being stared down or not. He felt embarrassed to have been caught slacking, and that the same man seemed the notice his moments of interlude each time.

Overthinking the situation entirely, he was surprised when the sharp clang of the shift bell rang from the quarterdeck hours later. He stood up with the small group he had been working with, each groaning as they stretched their legs and grasped their hurting backs. McCree looked back to where the lieutenant had been standing earlier, unsure of how he felt about the man now longer being there.

Descending the steps to return below deck, Tracer lazily waved at him as she walked away from him toward the crew’s quarters, possibly to wipe her brow with the fresh water or relax in her hammock. McCree passed through the hall to the gun deck, the long row of cannons sure to help him cool off. Entering the doors to the covered deck, all was quiet. No one was expected to be with the weapons when no threat was in sight.

McCree pulled various cords along the wall, lifting open the gun hatches and allowing the cool sea breeze to fill the room. Light reflected off the water to illuminate the quiet room of cannons.

Taking a seat on a bench across from the cannons and open hatches, McCree breathed the ocean air deeply. His legs splayed out unceremoniously and his posture atrocious, McCree relished in the lack of military eyes watching him. Enjoying the cool shade and the lull of ocean spray, McCree jokingly justified his break as part of his duties as gunner's mate. He wasn't slacking, he was just taking time to inspect the guns. McCree chuckled to himself. It was a moment of peace he wasn’t sure he’d ever manage to get on a frigate. He’d have to remember this place when he needed to stay out of sight.

Just then, the gun deck doors creaked open as boots clacked into the room. Unmistakably officers’ boots, McCree shot up to a standing position, startled by the sudden intrusion.

The offending officer also seemed startled, as McCree found himself looking into the wide eyes of a lieutenant who was quite clearly not expecting anyone to be there.

After a moment passed, the lieutenant, breaking eye contact to nervously gaze around the room, cleared his throat.

“Excuse me for the intrusion,” he said, his voice level. After an awkward beat, he turned to leave.

“Wait!” McCree called, instantly shutting his mouth and chastising himself for calling out so plainly to the second-in-command. But the officer did not seem angered by the outburst. Instead, he stopped with his hand on the iron handle of the door and gazed back at McCree.

He had no idea what he planned to say after calling out so stupidly. “Uh,” Fucking idiot. “Were you looking for someone, sir?”

The dark haired man did not have a hard demeanor like many of his fellow officers, and up close seemed more delicate that what McCree would have expected from a lieutenant. Most higher ranking members of the navy were worn down by the sea, scarred and calloused, hair gritted and salty. The lieutenant’s smooth skin and sleek hair could have belonged to a noble.

The officer cleared his throat before answering. “I was not seeking anyone in particular.” He paused, seemingly finding words to say that fit the strange situation. "I was simply seeking a moment of reprieve from the sun."

Smirking at the confession, McCree playfully crossed his arms and jutted a hip out. “Slackin', are you? Well, the guns are my ladies and I’m not too quick to let any old man touch ‘em.”

Unamused, the lieutenant deadpanned. “What is your name, Gunner?” His voice had lost its timidness.

“Jesse McCree.” He answered, his joking nature evaporating under the stare. “Sir.” He added, in case it mattered.

“Well, Jesse McCree,” Each syllable of his name was pronounced fully, “You may return to your duties.” He moved once more to leave the room.

“Wait!” McCree called again. The dark glare met his eyes once more. “You didn’t tell me your name.”

The lieutenant’s mouth became a disapproving line. McCree was almost sure the man wouldn’t answer. “Hanzo Shimada.” He answered plainly. “But you may call me Lieutenant.”

And with that, the ranking officer left the room, the door closing behind him and the clack of his boots fading into the sounds of the ship.

McCree collapsed back down onto the bench he had been lounging on previously, letting out a long breath. His heart was beating fast from the nervewracking interaction, but he was grinning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here's Jesse McCree, a shit sailor who constantly freaks out because he has no idea what to do. His incredibly handsome, kind-of-a-jerk lieutenant putting him on edge because he's not sure whether the man is his friend or will give him potato-peeling duties for the rest of the voyage.
> 
> The full story is completely planned out, smut, conflict, and all. Feedback welcomed. Thanks for reading!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The journey is afoot. McCree faces his fears and Hanzo reveals his own.

Four days pass at sea, each one sapping away the high spirits and jovial songs of the crew more than the last. Dampness from the sea was present in all things aboard the HMS _Horizon_ , in their soggy boots and salty bread. When the ocean was calm and the sun was high, men would lay their coats out on deck or clamp woolen socks to the rigging for some semblance of dryness.

McCree felt as though the grit of the salt had permeated his entire being. He had trouble running his fingers through his hair, bathing doing nothing but removing the sweat and replacing it with more salt. His skin felt dry and crummy, now feeling as though he understood why longtime seamen had such leathery-appearing skin. At first, he opted to shave his scraggly beard with his knife and a careful hand. However, the moment his fresh skin was hit with the rushing sea air, the stinging made him think twice about the decision. He no longer cared too much about the scruff on his face.

Since his encounter with the lieutenant four days prior, McCree had had very little contact with the man. McCree was taking on increased responsibilities as day and night shifts were evened out between crew numbers, spending more time running from station to station. Many times he had to apologize for bringing the wrong tool or reading an instrument incorrectly. Each time he would make a joke or claim an excuse, but only succeeded in making several operations take longer to accomplish.

Tracer was also rather busy, but seemed to be finding more jobs below deck. Whether it was luck or profitable connections, she stayed out of the sights of more than one officer who wouldn’t mind seeing a woman thrown from the ship. The two caught up each night at dinner, yet McCree hadn’t told her of his interaction with Hanzo Shimada. Whether he was embarrassed of how he acted or wished to keep the casual interaction a secret to only himself, he wasn’t sure.

At this point into the journey, there were still many things about the ship that McCree feared. He feared falling overboard. He feared being found out to be a thief. At the moment, however, his biggest fear was each of the masts that towered 100 to 200 feet above him, and the possibility of a shift involving climbing one. The ability to rig a sail was considered to be one of the most basic skills a sailor could have - and one that McCree did not possess. His shiftmates looked forward to their rotation, finding the potential change of scenery to be welcoming and decided in advance who would take the crow’s nest for lookout. McCree would use these moments of conversation to quietly grow pale and try not to imagine himself having to observe the sea from so high above solid footing.

However, despite his silent preference to assemble one million compasses before ever touching the sails, the shifts seemed to begin inching toward mast responsibilities.

The first fateful shift he would spend with the sails was thankfully on deck. The morning sun had just barely crossed over the horizon, heat growing as the sky grew a brighter, more brilliant shade of blue. The topmost sails would remain open during night travel, but lower sails that were dropped at dark would need to be unfurled and re-risen for the day. A group of men were already interspersed above, bounding across the tall beams and shrouds to ready for sail attachment. They threaded rope through pulleys and tightly knotted the lines to their respective cleats. The men’s movements were fluid and sure, bare feet grasping the beams like a routine they’d done a thousand times.

McCree swallowed thickly. There was no way he could be expected to do that.

Around the massive trunks of each mast were the rolled sails, incredibly heavy canvases that required several men to lift and unfurl. Looking at the piles as tall as he was, McCree had no knowledge of what was the front, back, top, or bottom.

His peers had already begun the process of spreading the sails and finding the line of eyelets along the edges for attaching ropes. McCree dumbly followed along, mimicking the movements of his peers. Their motions were deft and precise, quickly threading rope through canvas and pulley. McCree fumbled with the rope and struggled to shove the frayed braided end through the wooden pulley. Within minutes, the massive mainsail was attached to the proper halyards, ready to be heaved to its position on the mast.

The groups of men both on deck and in the rigging began to tug, their combined strength hauling the heavy material into place above. Up top, the men on the beams quickly attached their lines, but the ropes belonging to the men on deck were still in their hands rather than also secured to cleats. The enormous canvas flapped in the wind, its force enough to make a man lose his footing. Each seaman ran to their respective pulleys and cleats to finish the job. McCree struggled at his station to keep the rope in hand and fasten it down firmly. He attempted to tie the braid in a manner similar to lacing his boots, but the elementary slipknot came undone twice.

“Who taught you to tie a knot, gunner?”

“Well, ya see, I was never very good in school,” McCree turned his head to look at the approaching man who addressed him, “Lieutenant.”

Hanzo Shimada raised an eyebrow at the comment, assessing the hefty rope in McCree’s hands. Behind him, no one seemed to be paying attention to the moment, doing their own work or speaking with peers. As McCree’s group completed their respective line knots, the sail grew taut and filled with wind. One corner, attached by McCree’s rope, was still weakly rippling from not having been tied.

Foregoing further criticism, the man simply stepped forward and kneeled beside McCree. Without words, he took the rope and slowly tied a simple bowline, pausing after each movement to make sure McCree understood.

“Haven’t seen you on deck too much.” McCree noted casually.

Pulling the line tight, Hanzo shielded his eyes to look up at the sail, which had stopped rippling and was bowed from wind.

“I do have duties beyond making sure our sailors know how to sail.” He replied, standing up and brushing off his trousers. “Don’t let me catch you embarrassing yourself like that again.”

McCree grinned, “‘Else you won’t save me next time?”

The lieutenant had already started walking away, leaving McCree to smirk smugly to himself. _Him and those shiny black boots._

-

While McCree had only mentioned not seeing the officer lately as a cheeky passing remark, the truth was that Hanzo had been absent from his watch shifts quite often. The days rolled forward and McCree noticed that the few times he saw the lieutenant hadn’t necessarily been as he had expected.

Most commanding officers had sharp glares and were quick to notice a man’s mistake, but Hanzo seemed to hang back from the crew, not speaking even with others of high rank. On occasion, he would discuss matters of the ship in very short and direct ways, giving precise analyses and orders. As McCree kept casual note of how the man acted, he grew aware of how out of place his past interaction on the gun deck with Hanzo had been. At the time, McCree felt like there might have been a semblance of comfortable acquaintance in the brief exchange. As McCree witnessed Hanzo’s disinterest in others, the more strange the moment became.

It seemed that, as a rule, the common crewmen kept the lieutenant at a distance out of a curious balance of fear and respect. They never called him weak for not punishing slackers as his colleagues did, or assumed he was a pushover for being a rather quiet second-in-command. They trusted the captain implicitly and, if the captain revered Hanzo, so would they.

In all, he was rarely approached by others and absolutely did not engage in frivolous conversation. Which is exactly what McCree decided he wanted to seek out.

Although his mental notes on the lieutenant’s actions may have initially been scientific, the conclusion he had come to was that the poor man must feel lonely without a friend on board.

“What the bloody hell are you going on about?” Tracer blurted incredulously at dinner one night.

“He probably just wants a friend, y’know?”

Tracer laughed loudly around the bread she was chewing. “And you-!” She paused to stop laughing and swallow her food. “And you honestly think you’re the man to be friends with him? Like, what, maybe he’ll take your side if you ever get found out and sent to the brig?”

McCree waved his hand dismissively. “Oh, this has nothin’ to do with political advantage. I just think it would be helpful to the _crew_ -” Tracer rolled her eyes, “if our lieutenant was in better spirits from the company of a pal.”

“Uh-huh.” She smirked skeptically while stirring a spoon in her stew. “‘The company of a pal.’ Sure. Let me know how that plan goes. I'll wave happily from outside your cell.”

-

McCree’s morning shifts had begun requiring climbing the impossibly tall rope shrouds and he had been using every excuse he could think of to get out of it. Whether or not his crewmates knew that every ‘vantage point from below’ and ‘just a little lightheadedness’ was entirely fake, they didn’t seem to care. After all, it wouldn’t matter what they thought if McCree was caught slacking by an officer.

On this particular morning, a week and a half into open ocean, McCree thought he found his perfect excuse in the stern lieutenant standing atop the quarterdeck. He figured he could use the moment to get to know his quiet acquaintance while conveniently not having to climb a mast.

Clambering up the steps from the main deck to the quarterdeck, McCree was pleased by its usual visitor scarcity. Other than the helmsman and a few deckboys tending to the mizzenmast, there were no bustling shift groups or yelling commanders. Hanzo was staring out at the water rushing past, seemingly too lost in thought to notice McCree’s approach.

“Alright up here?” McCree asked casually, a friendly grin on his face.

Snapping out of his daze, Hanzo turned. “Pardon me?” He asked, not catching what McCree had said. Startled by the intrusion, his voice was quiet and without its usual authority.

McCree froze at the surprisingly vulnerable response. His face burned as he tried to internally justify why he had come up here to begin with and that it hadn’t been a completely idiotic mistake.

“I-I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb you, sir.” McCree stammered, losing his initial cockiness.

Hanzo cleared his throat and straightened his back in an attempt to regain some composure. “No matter, Gunner. A distracted man cannot keep proper watch.” He glanced awkwardly at his own feet and back out at the water.

Not having been chastised, McCree relaxed. Leaning against the railing far too casually for a conversation with an officer, he delved. “What’s got your mind wringing?”

“‘Wringing’?”

“Yeah, what’s got you staring at nothin’ when you could be giving slackers a piece of your mind?” McCree pointed his thumb in the direction of the main deck behind him, where a group of men were sitting and laughing, holystone forgotten in their hands.

Hanzo paid the group little regard. “And I suppose you’re somehow not slacking for being on the quarterdeck when the rest of your shift is halfway up the foremast?”

McCree laughed loudly at the jab. “You noticed that, huh?” He grinned at the lieutenant, who still stood straight-backed and unsmiling. “I’m not really a man for heights, you see.”

“For heights nor for tying a simple knot, I’ve found. How exactly did you manage to find yourself aboard a sailing vessel with so little in the way of sailing knowledge?”

Placing a hand over his heart in feigned pain, McCree sighed. “You’re a straight-to-it type, I see. Don’t think I didn’t notice you skate over that question about being distracted.”

Hanzo’s face relaxed, a small smile on his lips. “We both have our secrets, I think.” His eyes roamed up as he considered the various crewmen bounding across beams and rigging above them. He paused in thought before continuing, “You will find that it is easier to work above when you are not wearing boots. Your natural grip will make you feel more secure.”

McCree perked up at the advice, his eyes following Hanzo’s line of sight up to the masts.

He continued, “Keep your body close to where your hands are; your weight will keep you steady. The wind is more intense and the rocking of the ship is more noticeable from above. Try to keep a hand on the rigging at all times as you move.” His gaze dropped to watch McCree. “And don’t look down.”

McCree met his gaze. “You just may make a real proper sailor outta me, Hanzo.”

“It’s Lieutenant.” He corrected. “And we will see about that.”

-

McCree did eventually take Hanzo’s advice to heart, steeling himself for the climb during an early morning shift. In reality, the groups who had to climb masts did less of the back-breaking work than other stations. They checked the topsails, raised the lower mainsails, re-secured lines that were already secured, inspected rigging. For McCree, the mental barrier of heights kept him from enjoying the relative ease of the job.

With eyebrows meeting hairlines from his peers, McCree didn’t offer an excuse one morning against climbing the rigging. He silently removed his boots at the base of the foremast and slowly, but confidently as possible, he began scaling the rope rigging. Keeping his body flush against the shrouds, sweat blossomed across his brow with each new step. Once reaching the first solid sail beam, McCree let out a sharp breath he hadn’t noticed himself holding, and grabbed further halyards along the beam to start his duties.

Hanzo had been right about the winds and the swaying of the frigate; everything seemed much more exaggerated and intense from high up. The normal rocking had become a background sensation when on deck, the small movements against the waves no longer noticeable after a few days at sea. Up top, the masts bobbed and swayed, not weighed down like the main body of the ship below. McCree’s knuckles were white from grasping tightly at the support lines while he worked. His stomach was in knots at the thought of falling, each sway of the ship threatening nausea.

Finishing his inspections with gritted teeth and aching hands, there were still a few hours left before the shift bell would be rung. McCree sat on a lower beam at the center, near the mast, and let himself breathe. He found that being above the main body of the ship didn’t frighten him nearly as much as the sides of the sail booms and the rigging that had him staring down at the deep water. Falling onto the wood and breaking his neck was comforting against the possibility of falling overboard and treading the cold, dangerous waters.

As he discovered, most sailors couldn’t actually swim. They spent their lives on the water but never learned to save themselves if they actually fell into it. One crewmate, a small but feisty Swedish man with a hook in place of a hand, had explained to him that sailors spent their lives on water that would try to kill them whether or not they could swim in it. A defeatist perspective that even McCree couldn’t argue with.

McCree had spent his days on land bathing in rivers and fishing on lakes, bodies of water that wouldn’t fight back the way an ocean would. He learned to swim as a young boy and enjoyed the feeling of a cool dive on a sweltering day. Even so, he still wouldn’t wish to be caught in the dark sea swimming for his life, unknown creatures circling from below.

The beam McCree sat on wobbled as two of his shiftmates approached from one side of the rigging.

“...be a wonder if we make it to port…”

“...season has started…”

McCree looked up at the approaching crewmen, preparing himself to get up and let the men pass. They chuckled when they recognized who he was.

“Hey! It’s the scaredy cat. Finally made it up here, then?”

“Yeah, but, y’know, there might be some work for me down below.” McCree joked, and all three of them laughed together. “Wasn’t expecting the wind to be so strong up here, though.”

The men nodded. “You think it is, now. Wouldn’t wanna be up here when a storm passes through, that’s for sure. Hoping we get lucky this season.”

“Lucky that we don’t have a shift on the masts during a storm, or lucky that there won’t be a storm at all?” McCree wondered.

“Either one would be fine. Rather have no storm at all, but wouldn’t mind watching some other poor soul deal with the sails instead of me.”

Standing to let them bound past, McCree bid them farewell. His nerves jumped at the thought of storm season. _What if one hits while we’re too far from land? What if a mast gets struck by lightning?_

-

“All of those fears are wholly unfounded.”

“But is it possible? Could the ship roll over?”

McCree stood at the front of the ship with Hanzo as the lieutenant peered through a sextant, taking notes for the helmsman and navigator. The slim man stood with his feet apart, a powerful pose that McCree knew was to steady him while both hands were needed for the instrument but admired nonetheless. A day had passed since his adventure up the rigging. McCree had originally wanted to tell Hanzo all about his experience in the shrouds, to thank him for his advice, but his mind had been preoccupied with the possibility of a storm passing through.

As soon as McCree had spotted the lieutenant at the bow of the ship, he approached for conversation. This time, however, Hanzo had not been surprised by his presence.

“It’s ‘capsize’, not ‘roll over’. And no, I do not believe the _Horizon_ could capsize knowing her design and ballast. At worst, I imagine a squall could topple the masts.” The lieutenant replied, exasperated by McCree’s worrying.

“The masts-?!”

“Nothing our competent crew couldn’t handle.” Hanzo removed the sextant from his eye to leer at McCree. “Except for you, probably.”

“Oh, you little…” McCree grinned at the playful response.

Chuckling, Hanzo put the instrument back to his brow, rebalancing the horizon in the viewfinder. “If it helps to alleviate your worry, the weather should remain clear for now. The barometer hasn’t shown a pressure change in several days.”

McCree smiled, even though the officer couldn’t see him.

The two continued to chat, mostly sharing jokes at McCree’s expense. He didn’t mind; the conversation was comfortable and a nice change from the general unease he had been noticing from Hanzo.

“You always been uptight around people?” McCree asked.

Hanzo raised an eyebrow. “In what manner?”

“You know. You don’t really talk to other people, other officers. I’ve never seen you yell at the crew, which is welcome but still kinda strange.” McCree waved his hands around vaguely as he explained.

Hanzo regarded him for a moment. The wind blew a few loose strands of hair into his face and he absently brushed them away. “I’m talking to you, aren’t I?” He answered after a moment.

McCree pursed his lips skeptically. “I don’t count, sugar.”

Hanzo sighed dramatically. “I don’t know.” McCree continued to glare skeptically. Hanzo moved close to McCree conspiratorially. “I think something has been going on.” His voice had dropped to just above a whisper.

Hanzo’s face less than a foot from his, McCree immediately blushed, eyes wide. “W-what do you mean?”

Glancing around them suspiciously, even though there were no crewmembers close by, Hanzo continued. “I have been getting strange orders from the captain.”

At the close proximity, McCree had trouble paying attention to anything other than his own breathing. He noticed small metal studs in Hanzo’s pierced earlobes and averted his gaze as though he had seen something indecent.

“S-strange orders?” McCree’s face continued to burn.

“I don’t think our mission is as he stated.” Hanzo said, but immediately stepped away at the sounds of boots approaching. A crewman on the other side of the bow grabbed a forgotten tool before turning to return to his station, never once noticing the pair.

Hanzo straightened and smoothed his waistcoat. “Everything is purely my own thoughts, of course. No one else has indicated that the mission is anything other than true. I believe I just have a worrier’s mind.”

Before McCree could respond to anything Hanzo had presented, the lieutenant walked away. “Good day, Gunner.”

Like the conversation had never happened, the front of the ship was silent once more, McCree standing alone against the winds whistling through the railing. He never turned to watch Hanzo leave, simply churned the strange proceedings through his mind. Stuck between the lieutenant’s wariness of the mission and the way his dark eyes had looked up close, McCree hardly noticed the sharp rings of the shift bell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last platonic chapter!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Deadlock recognized, slacking off, gun practice, salty lips.

Shift rotations eventually moved as all things do, sending McCree back to responsibilities that no longer involved sails. He did miss the ease of mast duties, specifically being able to sit on his ass during his supposed hard work time, but was ultimately happy with no longer sweating bullets each day he clutched the rigging to climb.

Reapplying thick coats of varnish to areas the salt and sun had stripped dry was repetitive work. Though, the sharp fumes of the varnish were nauseating when inhaled for more than a few moments at a time. Along with his group of peers, McCree would spend the entirety of his shifts pallid and queasy until the specified areas were completely refinished. The heat of the sun mixed with the fumes of the varnish made more than one dinner go untouched in the evenings. The work group opted to turn in for their hammocks early to sleep off the sick feeling.

McCree increasingly found his dreams tainted with images of dark hair, trim waistcoats, amused smirks. His head clouded with an intoxicating rush as he awoke each morning and tried desperately to recall dream sequences. While there was never any promise as to whether or not he would catch a glimpse of the lieutenant on any passing day, the possibility was enough to electrify McCree. His mood was light and joking regardless of the sickening varnish tasks he had to undertake.

Tracer may have noticed the upswing in his mood but never commented on the source. She did, however, very obviously and purposefully scrunch up her nose at the lingering fumes from McCree's work.

"No worries, mate." She assured him. "Soon your shifts will bring you below deck with the rest of us rats."

When bathing, McCree sorely missed hot water. He missed hot, fresh water that made him feel lavishly clean. Hauling a bucket of freezing seawater to a cramped, damp room far below deck felt humiliating and somehow not effective at all. A bar of soap was a small comfort, but ultimately the salt would win.

After his last round of varnish refinishing duties, McCree hauled yet another bucket to the private bathing room, soap and cloth in hand. Scrubbing his wild hair with swift vigor, he had become accustomed enough to the cold water that he no longer vocally swore, only hissing at the unwelcome temperature. While the salt left a grit on his skin, he was happy to finally be rid of the pungent vinegar scent of his previous duties.

Well, on his body, at least. His clothes would not be so easily freed.

He bounded to his hammock and trunk in only his breeches, barefoot and bare chested. He sifted through his trunk of effects in search of a clean shirt and frock.

"I recognize that tattoo, boy."

McCree spun to face the offending crewman. He had forgotten about the fading image on his shoulder blade. The stylized skull was recognizable to almost anyone who knew the gang scene, as well as those in the bounty hunting business.

He didn't recognize the older man who had addressed him, but his accent was similar to McCree, which was terrifying in itself. The fact that this man now knew of McCree's tie to Deadlock? He could inform the gang of his whereabouts. Or worse, take him for a bounty as soon as they reached dry land.

The man stood with his arms crossed, expectant of a response.

"I'm not in that business no more." McCree answered carefully, feeling as though he was negotiating an accord that he didn't yet know the specifics of.

The man didn't break his gaze, but raised his eyebrows as though bored.

"Evidently." He gestured vaguely around the room with one hand. "And I'm not in the business of takin' you lot in, neither."

The man turned and headed back toward the barrack entrance. "Don't bring that gang business anywhere near this boat, y'hear?"

His steps clipping up the stairs, he was gone before McCree could respond.

Still kneeling at his trunk, McCree let out a shaky breath. The man had been a bounty hunter. Well, he needn't worry about gang business on the _Horizon_. The point of being on the ship at all was for McCree to escape Deadlock. Vision settling, he was calmed by the knowledge that, at the very least, the bounty hunter would likely not seek to tell anyone about his whereabouts. But, he would also not want to do anything to put himself on the radar for having such a bounty collected.

-

Prolonged exposure to the sun had begun taking its toll on McCree. He often found himself lethargic and parched, desperate for water and shade. He would try to steal away to the empty starboard gun hall for quiet reprieve, but usually didn't make the full distance before an officer directed him back to his duties on deck. He should have taken the hints and protected himself from the possibility of punishment, but the heat of the day and the ache from work was enough to convince him to continue making risky trips away from deck duties.

On one of the few days he did manage to make it the full distance, able to finally enjoy an instance of cool lonesome, he strangely found his spot already taken. Although, McCree was pleasantly surprised to find this particular officer present rather than any other.

"Aren't you a little old to be taking naps?" McCree announced himself jokingly.

Hanzo had been sitting against the wall, eyes closed in a snooze and legs crossed tight. His boots were removed and McCree could see the white stockings around his toes poking out from their crossed position.

McCree's announcement, however, shocked Hanzo out of his daze, the startled lieutenant halfway to standing before narrowing his eyes at the intruder.

"I should have known it was you." Hanzo accused, slowly lowering himself back to his previous sitting position, eyes glowering at McCree.

"Gunner's mate." McCree reminded him in a mocking tone, closing the entrance door behind him and settling beside Hanzo against the wall.

A few gun hatches had already been slightly raised to allow a breeze to flow through, reflected light from the water dancing pleasantly along their section of the hall. McCree breathed the fresh air deeply, relishing in the cool shade.

"How are you finding your first sailing mission?"

McCree looked over to find Hanzo once again had his eyes closed, head resting back against the wall. His eyebrow was quirked in anticipation of a response.

He smiled. "Not bad. Work is shit. Food is shit. There's this lieutenant who slacks off a lot, though. He's not bad."

McCree laughed as a smile unfurled on Hanzo's lips.

Gazing at Hanzo's lips felt lewd, though, and McCree felt his heart flutter inappropriately. He averted his gaze in an attempt to stave off the indecency, his cheeks burning. _What the fuck am I doing?_

Hanzo didn't seem to notice McCree's predicament. "Well, if you believe the lieutenant to be too forgiving, I'm sure he can locate the more unpleasant duties aboard the ship to hand off to you."

Allowing himself to look back at Hanzo, McCree found one eye slightly open to gaze at him, smile still on his lips. McCree smirked.

They sat in quiet comfort for several minutes, the sounds of steps across deck muffled through the hull around them. Water sprayed against the outside, not quite high enough to reach the open ports, but sending cool droplets in with the higher waves. McCree was no longer sweating from the oppressive heat of the sun and was glad for the break. He knew he would need to return above deck soon.

He remembered what Hanzo had mentioned to him several days prior.

"Say, did you find out anything more about those orders you were worryin' about?"

Hanzo opened both eyes fully then, his face hardened into a slight grimace. "I'm afraid I cannot talk about it."

"But-"

"I am sorry, gunner." Their gazes met. "I believe my suspicions are currently too unsubstantiated for further discussion."

Abruptly, Hanzo began pulling his dark boots back over this stocking and breeches, movements hard and emotional. Without thinking, McCree put his hand over Hanzo's, stilling his actions.

He met Hanzo's eyes and, in a voice far steadier than he felt, said. "You can trust me."

The words hung in the air as Hanzo said nothing, analyzing McCree's intentions, making no movement. After a moment, his face softened slightly.

"Thank you."

With that, he finished securing his boots and stood, heading for the door with no further words and without looking back at McCree.

-

There was no extended break between their next interactions; a relief to McCree. He spotted Hanzo the very next day, above deck, present for his watch shift for the first time in a while. He was stationed near the main mast, speaking with a group of petty officers, donning his lieutenant’s frock and appearing quite the commanding part.

McCree was positioned leisurely splayed across a clear spot on deck near the bow, a tiny brush in one hand and a massive chain in the other. He scrubbed haphazardly at the sea scum on the anchor chain, watching the lieutenant through the various work groups bounding in between. Witnessing Hanzo give orders made McCree feel smug in his fantasized immunity, even though he was completely sure of its nonexistence. He imagined Hanzo berating everyone on board for their poor work, but swooning at the truly statuesque example of seamanship in McCree.

“Oi, Scruffy.” McCree turned to look at the small, hook-handed man who’d addressed him. There was a glare of annoyance in the gaze directed at McCree.

“Scruffy-?”

“You’re not exactly invisible, lad.” The Swedish man threatened simply, nodding at the chain in McCree’s hand and then shooting a glance back at the lieutenant.

McCree gave a goofy smile at the admission. He dropped his gaze and scrubbed vigorously at the heavy links bigger than his hands. Even if such a fictional immunity from punishment could be garnered from Hanzo, his crewmates made it quite clear that there would never be such an immunity from them.

He was no fool. Even being so new to the Royal Navy and the inner workings of the ship hierarchy, McCree was under no impression that he was allowed to be friends with Hanzo. Or any officer for that matter. He would never _want_ to take advantage of someone higher ranking, for rations or privileges or what-have-you. He simply wanted-

Well, what did he want?

Something far more indecent than a friendship - at least, that’s what he felt in the fluttering of his heart and fixated thoughts. He feared what that might mean for him; if he was ever rejected, would Hanzo throw him overboard? McCree shivered at the thought of treading freezing ocean water.

Picking at a particularly tough barnacle, McCree tried to imagine any sort of future for himself after sailing this ship. Maybe he would jump the side and go into hiding as soon as they reached first port. Maybe he would wait for an even further port; jump ship then. Or maybe he would stay on board for the full mission and return home with the rest of his crewmates. With the lieutenant. Somehow the man made McCree forget about how bad the food was, how awful bathing was, how damp sea life was. Any number of things that would have otherwise made McCree say goodbye to with no hesitation.

After a solid few hours of dealing with sea slime and sharp barnacles, McCree took a break from his work to catch Hanzo on the quarterdeck before his watch shift ended.

When McCree ascended the few steps to the higher deck, he found Hanzo at the helm, his hand guiding the impressive wheel.

“D’they demote you and make the helmsman new lieutenant? Because I’m not sure we could still be friends after anything that embarrassing.”

Hanzo rolled his eyes and smiled at McCree. “Hello, gunner.” He greeted.

The last time McCree had seen Hanzo in full lieutenant’s garb had been during his boarding back at the royal bay. The ensemble made an impressive sight.

“Nice lady,” McCree gestured to the pistol hanging at Hanzo’s hip. “Metal casings? Or still wooden?”

“Why don’t you tell me, _gunner_.”

McCree huffed. “Aw, that’s no fun. Metal casings. I just wanted to see how well you knew ‘er.” He pouted dramatically.

“Not very well.” Hanzo noted. “I am not particularly fond of gunpowder weaponry. Or else, I could be gunner's mate." He added with a smirk.

“Pfft.” McCree laughed and walked leisurely around the helm pulpit, gazing aimlessly across the busy deck below and back at Hanzo. “So, what made you decide to show your face today? Been a while.”

Hanzo shrugged. Loose hairs flowed gracefully in the wind and McCree forced himself to look away. “I needed a bit of fresh air. Looking at charts all day can damage the eyes and send you babbling.”

“Oh, so you look at charts. Thought you were just sleeping in gun halls all day.”

Hanzo’s eyes hit him sharply. “I’ve done no such thing.” He said sweetly with a fake smile. “As you haven’t, either.” His eyes widened menacingly at ‘either’.

McCree laughed plainly. “Okay, okay. I get it. But what’s got you on the wheel?”

Hanzo dropped his smile and pointed a long arm toward the port side of the frigate. McCree’s gaze followed the direction of his hand out toward the water and along the horizon.

“Ah, shit.”

The wide expanse of the sea met the horizon with dark grey clouds in the far distance, thick masses in the sky that only meant bad news.

He whipped his head back to face Hanzo, speechless. Hanzo nodded solemnly at the response.

“B-but you said storms won’t be a problem.”

“They won’t, because we are trained to handle the situation. We will still be forced to deal with them, regardless of the toll they take on the ship. You cannot outrun nature.”

McCree’s mouth flapped incredulously as he tried to find a response other than fear for his life. Being stuck out at sea in a vessel that is eternally at the mercy of the water was no walk in the park. A storm like the one along the horizon would only make the situation worse for him.

Hanzo chuckled at the horror on McCree’s face.

“I can’t believe this is funny to you.” McCree scoffed.

Hanzo opened his mouth to respond, but quickly shut it and straightened his back. He hurriedly motioned for McCree to scram. A series of heavy boots clambered up the stairs to the quarterdeck and McCree needed less than a second to realize the lieutenant only stands at attention for one man.

He quickly knelt at a cleat on the mizzenmast near where he was standing. He focused on a rope, grasping it to look like he had just finished tying it. The captain came into full view on the other side of the deck, his frock missing but his waistcoat and breeches impeccable. He was flanked by fellow senior officers, including Reinhardt. McCree made a quiet show of tightening the knot on the cleat and quickly descended the stairs back to the main deck.

“Shimada-” was all McCree caught before being out of earshot. He didn’t dare glance back at the quarterdeck.

-

The next morning, or possibly still that night, McCree was woken by a large hand briskly shaking his shoulder. Alarmed, his eyes shot open to find Reinhardt’s face above him, dramatically lit by a dim lantern in the man’s other hand. Before McCree could find the words to ask what the hell was happening, the gunnery captain held a finger to his lips for quiet, motioning for McCree to follow him from the barracks.

Still in his undershirt, McCree felt exposed when the two of them reached the upper deck. The sky was still completely dark, a flurry of stars visible between wisps of cloud. A small number of crewmembers manned the deck during night shifts, undertaking quiet tasks and staying below the radar of the sleeping day crew.

“Well, good morning!” Reinhardt finally greeted, out of earshot of the sleeping off-watch.

“Um,” McCree jerked his head skeptically at the situation, arms crossed against his chest. “Good morning?” He had no earthly clue what time it was.

“Today we’re pulling out the guns for a warfare simulation. Congratulations!”

“What- why is that congratulations?!” Warfare simulation?

Reinhardt clapped a huge hand on McCree’s shoulder, jolting his body with the force. “You’re commanding today. Find your uniform and a shave, and meet me for breakfast!”

Without further comment or farewell, Reinhardt left, walking through the ornate doors below the quarterdeck for the officers’ rooms and leaving McCree in his underwear above.

Commanding today.

McCree stumbled back down to the common crew barracks, sick to his stomach, trembling as he held a lantern above his trunk. He gathered his gunner’s mate frock and breeches, hoping some sort of lantern hook in the bathing room would keep him from shaving in the dark.

-

When McCree ascended once more to the upper deck, he was fully dressed in the deep blue of the naval uniform, bronze clasps adorning the breast and cuffs. He scratched at where his scruff once was, knowing prolonged exposure to salty winds would make his fresh shave sting like hell. His wet hair was chilled by the breeze, sending a shiver through his body.

 _“Meet me for breakfast,”_ Reinhardt had said. In the moment, McCree hadn’t quite understood the implications of the request, overwhelmed by his newfound event responsibilities. As he stood before the entrance to the officers’ quarters, he had trouble forcing himself to walk through the threshold. He should have known Reinhardt wouldn’t mean the pithy common crew dining area. But the officers’ dining room? He had no idea what to expect. Would the captain be there? A terrifying thought in itself.

Gingerly passing through the entrance and pressing the door closed behind him, McCree found a narrow hall of silence. Unimpressive wood doors lined the hallway, most closed. Venturing anxiously through the hall, he was pleased to come across Reinhardt sitting in an empty dining room, its long table uninhabited other than by the gunnery officer.

“H-hello.” McCree offered.

“Glad you made it!” Reinhardt immediately stood in greeting, pulling out a chair beside his spot for McCree to sit in.

The dining room was rather ornate, something fit for true naval officers. Crown moulding along the painted walls seemed entirely alien to the surroundings McCree had been used to for over a month now. The end of the room was lighted by a large windows, the hammered glass slightly obscuring the view of the sky beyond. The sun had started to rise, painting the once-black sky with grays and pinks.

The table itself was likely some sort of posh cherrywood or mahogany, but was indistinguishable due to the thick linens in deep hues covering it. The clatter of dishes could be heard from a side door to the kitchen, scents wafting from it that McCree hadn’t experienced since he’d been on dry land. The officers’ quarters were obviously some sort of otherworldly naval experience. They probably had hot water for their baths.

Behind him, a man in casual clothing shuffled through the entrance, yawning deeply. He took a place across the table from McCree and Reinhardt, waving halfheartedly at the two of them. McCree’s gaze was fixed on the brightly colored yarn woven into the man’s long dreadlocks.

“‘Morning, sir.” He said to Reinhardt with sleepy, half-lidded eyes. “And esteemed guest.”

“Good morning, Lucio. Lucio is ship surgeon.” He explained to McCree.

McCree smiled and offered a nod. The surgeon yanked a small notebook from his coat pocket, not furthering the conversation.

“So,” McCree turned to his superior, “What’s this about a warfare simulation?”

Before he could get a response, the serving entrance burst open with various deckboys precariously balancing mugs of coffee and steaming plates of breakfast. Each placement, including those at empty seats, was given utensils, coffee, and a steaming plate of food.

McCree could barely believe the toasted bread, pork, eggs, potatoes. He was used to some sort of soup and grit, maybe a hard biscuit. He was afraid to acknowledge the dish set before him, even, imagining that it was meant for the rightful owner of the seat he currently inhabited.

Completely unaware of McCree’s internal dilemma, Reinhardt and Lucio had already begun digging into their meals. Lucio drank deeply from the mug of dark coffee, a necessity that McCree suspected was required to stifle the surgeon’s morning yawns.

While lifting his fork to poke at the potatoes, boots clambered through the entrance behind him as officer’s filed in for their breakfast. Not one acknowledged McCree’s presence, only chatting amongst themselves or saying nothing at all.

McCree took great satisfaction at the states of his superiors. He was used to preened, sleek appearances and commanding presentations. As it were, most were still in their undershirts, hair sticking every which way from sleep. Those who had been topside continued looking quite the part, having already been presentable for many hours.

Mid-bite, McCree froze completely at the sounds of familiar approaching voices. Grateful for the position of his back facing the door, he pretended to be as completely unfazed as the rest of the company at the entrance of the captain and lieutenant.

“-and what exactly would need to be done to have the wind gauge working for us.”

“Absolutely nothing, sir, unless we manage to do it five days ago.”

They rounded the table to sit at the far end, taking no notice of the company around them. No one had stood at attention for the entrance of the captain - something that would have earned McCree, or any lowly seaman, lashes.

McCree pretended to focus on his food, but snuck glances down the table. Hanzo was dressed in full regalia, the only officer to do so who had not previously been on duty. The captain was dressed in only his shirt and breeches, sleeves rolled up to eat. It was almost comical to see such esteemed naval officers in their pajamas and casual clothes. Like seeing a teacher outside of school. A strange notion of normality that often wasn’t considered to exist for those in positions of authority.

Well, for everyone excluding Hanzo, who appeared as the embodiment of naval dress code.

Eventually, as meals were finished and caffeine took effect, conversation steadily grew. Wild hair was pulled back and tied, explanations and stories involving wider hand gestures.

“Warfare simulation.” McCree unceremoniously reminded Reinhardt, breaking the daze of the strange morning.

The man nodded and wiped his mouth with a cloth. “Gun practice. You take starboard side, I will man port. We need to men to smoothly load and fire the cannons as fast as we can manage.”

“We’re wastin’ live rounds on practice?”

“No, no, of course not. You need men to assemble cloth rounds.”

Gun practice. Not so bad. McCree nodded thoughtfully, considering size and gunpowder needed for cloth rounds. The frigate sported 98 guns; 80 full-size, 18 half-size, nine of the half-size on the upper deck and the other nine stored for off-use. It seemed McCree would be in charge of the 40 full-size cannons on starboard side for practice. He may be concocting a mastery of the cannons from thin air but at least knew his way around firepower.

“As fast as we can manage.” McCree repeated, considering the length of the gun hall. His stomach twisted excitedly at the prospect of commanding the guns. “Should be easy. When do we start?”

“Whenever you are ready.” It was not Reinhardt who said this, but the captain.

The table quieted under the voice. McCree felt miniscule under the heavy gaze of the captain, and tried his damnedest not to meet the eyes of the lieutenant beside him.

Reinhardt’s hand clapped McCree heavily on his back. “I believe we have a solid lad here. We will prove the power of _Horizon_ ’s capabilities in war.”

The captain nodded sagely at the promise. McCree caught the small smile on the lips of the lieutenant and burned the image into his mind.

-

McCree had never before heard the alarm sound for beating to quarters in times of war. He knew full well that the event was a drill, and that there was absolutely no threat, but the rapid drumming of a snare and the clanging of the bell so clearly alerted danger that McCree couldn’t keep his pulse steady. He paced through the vast gun hall while the crew came to attention above deck. Silently freaking out and unsure of the precise directive to follow, he was not prepared when nearly one hundred men spilled through the entranceway, ready for orders.

Breathing deep, McCree went over the steps in his head. Cannons are just big muskets. Big, three-person muskets.

They needed blanks. The crew shuffled and stared, awaiting command. No officers were present, making McCree feel far too understaffed for the moment. Muffled yelling drifted through the hull as the port side had already begun.

They needed blanks. He had no idea what anyone’s name was. How the hell was he going to distribute duties?

Wait.

“Alright. Varnish and holystone duty groups, you’re on blanks against the back wall. We need cloth rounds with enough gunpowder to make ‘em blow." He ran through a mental list of requirements. "Galley staff, you’re on hatches. Get every hatch open from bow to stern. Mast, sail, rope folks - if your hands are steady, you’re on first firing. Everyone else mans the cleats. Kickback’ll knock your teeth clean out, so you need a hard hand.”

Stares from the group.

“NOW!” McCree roared, adrenaline pumping hard. The men immediately scattered, crowding the hall and dispersing to each cannon along the way. The full length of the ship was going to make it impossible for both ends to hear commands at the same time. He needed relays.

Grabbing two passing deckboys by the collars, McCree pulled them close. “You boys got any yell in ya?” They nodded silently. “Well?”

“Yes, sir!” They screamed in unison.

“You,” he pointed to one. “Head to stern. You, on midsection. I yell, midsection yells, stern yells. Got it?”

They nodded vigorously and McCree motioned for them to move.

He headed to the benches lining the back wall, where groups were piecing together cloth rounds. They had a few made but weren’t going fast enough, slowing down at closing the cloths.

“Watch me.” McCree announced, holding up an unfinished round, heavy cloth filled with ashy gunpowder.

He made a show of knotting the four corners with two fingers, a plain slipknot that was fast and would hold for what they needed to do. McCree tried to pretend he couldn't remember who taught him the knot.

Behind him, hatches opened one by one, gifting the room with an ocean breeze and full light.

His mind was completely abuzz, hardly thinking through any of his actions. McCree simply followed the flow of the energy, flitting from gun to gun, assisting with fuses and lightsticks. He demonstrated carriages and gave general information on how far back the carriage sliders could go. Once each gun had a round in hand, he raced quickly back to the bow.

He could see the midsection deckboy standing atop a bench, waiting for orders. He couldn’t see the stern deckboy around the bend of the ship and could only hope he was ready as well.

From the port side of the ship, the deep explosive sounds of cannons firing were hardly muffled through the girth of the frigate.

McCree stood atop an empty carriage to get a better view of the line.

“No hesitatin’! No second guesses! You light that fuse and step the hell back. If you’re on a rope, you better hold it like it’s your gold. Ain’t no pirates gonna take it from you without a fight.” Men at the bow laughed, full attention on McCree. He could hear the distance voices of his messages being carried.

“MEN, AT THE READY!” He bellowed. God, he felt powerful.

Grips on ropes were tightened, burning lightsticks held close to fuses, knees bent and ready to jump. Complete silence.

“FIRE-”

The end of his command was cut off by the deafening thunder of cannons firing, followed by the crack of carriage sliders absorbing kickback. McCree’s ears rang shrill.

A domino effect of cannon fire could be heard for several seconds down the length of the ship as the order traveled. The front guns were silent and cooling by the time stern cannonfire ceased.

“Clean and reload.” He ordered to the bow, jumping down from his vantage point to bound through the hall to the midsection.

“We alright?” He asked. The men nodded, faces alight with excitement. “Gotta get faster, cleaner. You hear the first cannon blow and you fire. No hesitation.” More nods.

He bounded to the stern and delivered the same orders. They had to be faster, more alert. the domino effect was far too long.

Running all the way back to his place at the bow, McCree was panting, but felt light on his feet at the surge of excitement. He nodded at the bench group, still dutifully piecing together rounds, their fingers black from powder.

Hopping back up on his empty carriage, he was interrupted by a man bursting through the hall entrance. “Port side, eighteen seconds, sir!” The messenger announced.

McCree grinned. A challenge.

“PORT SIDE, EIGHTEEN SECONDS.” He called to the hall of men. “HOW ABOUT WE GET SEVENTEEN?”

Roars and laughter filled the air.

They needed a pocket watch. McCree briefly patted his own pockets and breeches before turning to ask someone to fetch a watch. Before he could speak, a hand presented a silver watch before him.

“Let us see you do better, gunner.” Hanzo taunted from beside the man who had brought the news.

McCree grinned cheekily and flipped open the face of the watch.

“MEN, AT THE READY.” He commanded once more. Again, feet scrambled to brace bodies, reloads were finished, sticks relit.

The men were visibly far more focused for the second round.

“FIRE-”

The thunder was louder, faster; domino effect noticeably tighter as cannons blew down the length of the ship. McCree watched the ticking hands as seconds passed. When the final sounds of cannonfire ceased, McCree announced the time.

“NINETEEN SECONDS.” Disappointed screams of competitiveness filled the air, McCree laughed loudly at the emotional response.

“ONCE MORE, DO BETTER. CLEAN AND RELOAD.”

He hopped down and approached Hanzo, who continued to stand in the entrance, watching. McCree’s ears still rung slightly and his command voice was growing a bit weak from all the bellows.

“So, you always wear your uniform to bed?” He teased conversationally.

Hanzo rolled his eyes. “You are concerning yourself with what I wear to bed?”

McCree snorted at the response and said nothing. Light filtered in from the open stairway behind Hanzo, illuminating him slightly. Sighing fondly, McCree couldn’t help but be astounded with how taken he was with this man. The adrenaline coursing through his veins couldn’t even allow himself the decency to feel embarrassed by the thought.

Behind him, the midsection deckboy announced “Ready!” and McCree returned to his vantage point.

He stood atop the carriage, surveying the long line of men. The crew at the benches had ceased making blanks and were simply watching with anticipation.

Running footsteps approached the entranceway once more as the same man from earlier reappeared. “Sixteen seconds, sir!”

McCree nodded his thanks and addressed the hall.

“LAST ROUND. MAKE IT FIFTEEN SECONDS OR GIVE PORT SIDE YOUR RUM.” He had no idea if he could actually do that, but the angered competitive response of the room was quite convincing. “MEN, AT THE READY.”

He pointed at the midsection deckboy and nodded. The boy nodded in return and spun his head to do the same for the stern boy. When the final nod reached McCree once more he continued, watch face flipped open. As the second hand reached the top, he bellowed.

“FIRE!”

It was by far the fastest round yet, the firing almost completely in sync. He kept his eyes focused on the midsection deckboy, waiting for the confirmation nod. Everyone in the bow section had their heads turned to peer down the long hall of guns.

The nod.

McCree clipped the stop on the watch.

Fourteen seconds. What the fuck.

“FOURTEEN SECONDS.” He called, grinning.

Shouts and jeers of triumph filled the air. The heavy tension completely dissipated as ropes were released and hatches slammed back down from their open positions. McCree laughed with the men, jumping down from the empty carriage and watching the momentary revelry. His legs trembled as the weight of command was lifted from his shoulders.

He couldn’t find his voice to congratulate the groups as they crowded at the entrance to return to the deck. He clapped his hand on the backs of the assisting deckboys in thanks as they passed.

The room, once empty, was hot and smelled strongly of gunpowder and fire. McCree cracked two hatches to flow air through the hall and let the smell pass outside. He was grateful for the moment of silence before he would have to return above deck and resume his duties as a normal crewman. Thinking of hitting the barracks first to change out of his frock, McCree realized the weight in his pocket belonged to Hanzo’s watch. He smiled absently and climbed the steps back topside.

-

The day passed quickly, all and sundry finding difficulty in paying attention to tasks with their morning having involved so much excitement. The crewmembers that had been split between port and starboard were rejoined and discussed the nostalgic rush of firing cannons. McCree barely noticed when his shift ended, riding his high and hardly sparing a thought toward the heavy anchor chains in his hands.

The crew hosted a raucous dinner, high mood bursting with songs and jeers. McCree had to raise his voice in order to tell Tracer anything at close distance. She laughed at his explanations of officers' quarters and attempting to shave before the sun had even risen. Having been on the port side team, Tracer made comical impressions of Reinhardt's commanding face.

Halfway through their meal, the barrels of rum were broken open and the entire room cheered victoriously. The alcohol was a very powerful means of quelling hearty dispositions among sailing crews, exemplified by nights like this. Everyone was exultant, flagons splashing precious alcohol with each toast. Tracer wasn't wearing her cap and no one seemed to notice.

Once plates were scraped clean and flagons replenished, the air was filled with slurred bar songs and hearty laughter.

McCree excused himself for a piss and climbed the stairs to return above deck. Even with the door closed and wind on the water, the sounds of the crew never quite faded. Although, it seemed a heavy clamor was also taking place through the doors of the officers' quarters, the harmonious racket amalgam on deck.

Smiling, McCree simply stood and breathed. The night deck was a lovely place to be; spare and chilly. There were no stars tonight, however, as thick clouds had obscured the view of the sky over the course of the day. The seas were still quite calm despite the threat that clouds carried.

Hopping lightly up the stairs to the quarterdeck for no reason he could substantiate, McCree was smugly pleased to see a familiar form lounging against the railing. Even in the dark, with sparse lanterns offering a weak glow, McCree recognized the silhouette staring out at the black sea.

He dug into his pockets as he approached Hanzo.

"Thanks for this today." He held out the polished silver pocket watch he had been loaned earlier.

Hanzo turned to view the offering. He smiled fondly, gently taking back the item. "I am glad that it could assist you. You command quite a show."

McCree leaned his back against the railing in close proximity to Hanzo. The lieutenant seemed unfazed by the closeness. "Well, ya know, commanding just comes natural for some folks."

He didn't need full light to know that Hanzo rolled his eyes severely.

"Modesty less so, it seems." The lieutenant quipped, making McCree bark out a laugh.

"Yeah, maybe I'm lacking a little in that area. But I'd never turn down some old fashioned schooling." He taunted.

"It wouldn't be the first time I have had to school you, Jesse McCree."

Like a jolt through his spine, McCree's pulse skyrocketed at the sound of his name. Any potential jokes he could crack died wholly in his throat. He watched the faint outline of Hanzo's eyes as he was watched in return.

McCree had never felt his blood run so hot for another man. It was an inescapable rush that filled his mind day and night. He couldn't be bothered to consider the indecency of his emotions, as anything so intense and true had no place being quelled. Thoughts battled between fleeing the quarterdeck or blurting out his feelings, or possibly an embarrassing mixture of the two. If he was thrown overboard, he was sure he'd drown happily.

However, the prospect of making words seemed far too complicated for the moment, and McCree simply leant forward and pushed his lips against the lieutenant's.

He felt foolish, distinctly aware of the unmoving lips beneath his. McCree quickly pulled away, a million apologies welling up in his head, it was the alcohol, I wasn't thinking right, I am so sorry. But before he could move more than an inch away, Hanzo kissed him back.

McCree's mind immediately blanked, a feeling akin to cannonfire blasting through his body. Any possible coherent thoughts were halted and discontinued.

The chaste kiss of soft lips sent his knees trembling, heart aflutter. The warm puffs of breath against his face and the scent of Hanzo's skin was completely intoxicating. He lifted a hand to gently catch Hanzo's cheek, unsure whether it was a good move to make but relishing in the heat of his skin.

He couldn't believe this was fucking happening. It felt like he was watching himself from afar, disconnected from his body. The salty lips on his own were heaven and he never thought he'd be so minutely interested in the inner workings of earthly miracles as he was in this moment.

Bringing their bodies together flush, McCree couldn't remember any possible reason they hadn't done this on day one.

McCree gingerly sucked Hanzo's bottom lip before slowly pulling away once more.

"This is probably," he muttered, their bodies still close, "So illegal for you. For us. But I gotta tell ya, I think I like kissin' you."

Hanzo snickered quietly, resting their foreheads together.

Comfortable seconds passed as neither of them spoke, afraid to break the spell. In this particular moment, they could pretend everything was perfect, the jitters of warmth and new affection meant all was right in the world.

A strange drop of water hit McCree's ear. Not from the ocean around them, but from straight above.

"Ah, shit." He said, leaning his head back to glare at the expanse of black above the tall masts. "Rain."

Light drops began to gradually patter against the deck, forcing the magic to end. McCree stole a final small kiss from Hanzo before the two of them rushed away from the railing and down the quarterdeck stairs to safety.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the wait. Wasn't happy with my writing so I tweaked a lot in the first two chapters before touching the third. Fourth is currently in motion. Feedback always appreciated.
> 
> I'm on [twitter](https://twitter.com/serpentstone).


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